“What’s that?”
“Quite a few people are referring to Pomphret as Lord Pig Slops.”
“ ‘Lord Pig Slops’?” Leo repeated. “How bizarre. Why on earth would they call him that?”
“No idea, but it’s pretty widespread. Might be some kind of school nickname, I suppose,” Race suggested doubtfully. “I never did move in the same circle as Pomphret and Studley and that older generation, so I can’t even make a guess at it.”
“Lord Pig Slops? Not exactly complimentary.” But Leo didn’t care about Pomphret’s strange nickname: he was more interested in how Isobel was faring.
He looked over to where she and her sister were standing in a small group of men and women. He’d hardly taken his eyes off her since Pomphret had left—but as Race had said, she seemed amazingly composed, sipping champagne and chatting quietly with several people. She even laughed at something one of them said, apparently quite unaffected by Pomphret’s outburst.
A surge of pride rose in him. Nobody would believe she’d just been the focus of a nasty accusation—and worse, one that was true. She looked serene and lovely, as calm as the moon.
As he watched, the orchestra started up again. Some fellow bowed over her hand and led her out onto the dance floor. The ball continued as if nothing untoward had happened at all. Except that Isobel was the focus of many eyes, and most of the murmured conversation.
As Race had said, they weren’t out of the woods yet.
***
Well, what a night.” Clarissa slumped back against the padded seat of the carriage. “I’m exhausted. Izzy you must be utterly shattered.”
“I am,” Izzy admitted. But it wasn’t the exposure of her illegitimacy that had left her feeling so drained—she’d been mentally braced for that for weeks, though the suddenness of it had been a shock. Nor was it the effort of maintaining a tranquil mien in front of all those curious people, though that had been exhausting, too.
The thing that had truly overwhelmed her was the knowledge that Lord Salcott had been prepared to fight a duel on her behalf—even though heknewthat Lord Pomphret’s claim was true. He’d risked hislifefor her, for she was certain that had it come to a duel, Lord Pomphret would never have done the decent thing and deloped. And as a lifelong hunter, he would be a very good shot.
Besides, dueling was illegal. Even if Lord Salcott survived, he would have had to flee the country or face a gaol sentence.
All because she’d wanted to have a season with Clarissa.
If she’d known this might be the result... She took a deep steadying breath. It didn’t help.
On top of all that, the amount of support she’d received after the incident, from all kinds of people—well, it humbled her. So many people had come up to her to ask her if she was all right, and then stay to say something disparaging about Lord Pomphret.
He was deeply unpopular, it seemed.
But what would have happened if the person who exposed her irregular birth had been popular? She didn’t dare think about it.
“Wasn’t Lord Salcott magnificent?” Clarissa continued as the carriage pulled out. “And what a surprise, after allhis gloomy prognostications about the axe falling and all that. I felt sure his first reaction would be to hustle us out of there.”
Izzy had expected much the same.
“What axe falling?” Mrs. Price-Jones asked.
Oh. Izzy swallowed. It was time she told their chaperone the truth. “I really am illegitimate,” she said. “I’m sorry that we didn’t tell you earlier. We thought it would be better for you if you didn’t know.”
“So that you couldn’t be blamed for colluding with us if—when—it came out,” Clarissa added.
Mrs. Price-Jones chuckled. “Oh, I always knew, my dears. Olive told me when she first wrote and asked me to come to London and take you gels about.”
Izzy’s jaw dropped. “And you didn’t mind?”
“Not a bit. I don’t hold with all that ‘sins of the father’ nonsense. And if you really think about illegitimacy, half the ton would be ‘there, but for the grace of God, go I.’ ”
Clarissa beamed at her. “That’s exactly what we think.”
“One question intrigues me however,” Mrs. Price-Jones said. “How is it that you two were raised together in the same house? It doesn’t sound at all like Sir Bartleby. I knew him slightly in my youth and he didn’t seem the fatherly type. Or even very responsible.”
“He wasn’t,” Izzy said. They told her their story, finishing just as the carriage drew up outside Lady Scattergood’s house.
